


Dreamboat

by MalevolentReverie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 1955, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Baby is not Ben’s biological child, Ben is 37, Ben is married to Phasma and cheats on her with Rey, Breeding Kink, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gaslighting, Grooming, Historical Inaccuracy, I mean it’s 1955 America, Infidelity, Loveless Marriage, Misogyny, Naked Female Clothed Male, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Power Imbalance, Rey is 15, Rey is into it but overwhelmed, Slow Burn, War Veteran Ben, as requested, babysitter rey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentReverie/pseuds/MalevolentReverie
Summary: A new family moves in to Rey’s cul de sac. She is roped in to babysitting their son, and while his flighty mother, Phoebe, is out, Rey is frequently left alone in the house with his cold, strict father, Mr. Solo—who also happens to be her father’s boss.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 152
Kudos: 415





	1. made in the shade

**Author's Note:**

> ELMOFIRE.GIF

“Rey, dear—could you bring this casserole to our new neighbors, please?”

It’s a quiet Thursday afternoon and Rey has just come home from school and planted herself in front of the television. _I Love Lucy_ is coming on soon, then _Father Knows Best_ , and she’s been looking forward to it all day. She’s also been stuck smelling her mother’s tuna casserole and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Why would she inflict that on the neighbors?

“ _Lucy_ is on,” Rey calls distractedly. “Can I have half an hour, please?”

“ _Lucy_ will be here when you get back, dear.”

Rey heaves a sigh, letting her head tilt back before she flops entirely on the floor. If she’s going to see the new neighbors that means she needs to put her dress back on and fix her hair and that’s so much work.

“Can I wear my jeans?” she asks.

“Is your blouse clean and pressed?”

She glances down at her yellow blouse. It’s a bit wrinkled but nothing embarrassing.

Shoes click on the hardwood. Rey tilts her head back to see her mother watching her from the edge of the hallway, hands on her hips and eyebrows raised. She always wears house dresses and never has a single blonde hair or bit of makeup out of place. It’s what Rey _should_ be aspiring to, but she finds it tedious, and her father doesn’t like when she wears makeup.

Mother taps her black flat on the edge of the blue carpet. “I would prefer you wear something nice. Why not that poodle skirt your father bought you last month?”

“No one my age wears those anymore, Mama.”

“Janet Reynolds told me just last week her sixteen-year-old daughter owns several poodle skirts.”

“That’s because Hannah Reynolds is weird.”

Mother sighs. She nods, motioning for Rey to come, and she beams and hops to her feet.

There was already a welcome party for the Solo family just two weeks ago but it was an adults-only party. Rey had a sleepover with her friend Rose instead and they played with their Pop-it beads for hours and talked about school. Rey hasn’t met the new neighbors yet, but she knows they have a son and Mr. Solo is her father’s boss.

Mother hands Rey the casserole dish and she gags when her back is turned to find the cover.

“Don’t forget that Mister Solo is papa’s boss,” Mother says. She turns and places the clear lid on the dish, then leans forward to kiss Rey’s forehead. “Be polite, dear.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She’s rewarded with another kiss to the forehead. Rey huffs and tries to wipe off the lipstick as she turns around. That stuff stains.

It’s a warm spring afternoon and the cul de sac is as quiet as ever. Rey steps into her loafers and walks down the steps, pausing at the end to glance between the indistinguishable rows of houses. The Solos are number 25, so they must be on the other side and a little ways down.

She sets the casserole pan on her hip and proceeds down the sidewalk past the saplings everyone has planted in their front lawns. There isn’t a blade of grass out of place or a single dog barking from behind a fence. It’s nice here. It’s all Rey has ever known.

There is a red Buick Roadmaster Skylark parked in the driveway of house number twenty-five. Rey walks slowly past it, turning her head to stare. She only knows what it is because her father talks about it all the time. It came out just two years ago in ’53 and costs five _thousand_ dollars.

She ambles up the steps to the front door, still staring at the car as she knocks. Don’t they have a baby? How do they fit him in the car?

The door opens almost instantly. Rey startles, nearly dropping the casserole, but manages to catch it in time. Phew.

“Oh—you must be Rey Niima! Jeanette’s daughter?”

The woman who answers is tall and blonde and wearing a fancy mint green dress. She’s done up like she’s going out and holding a martini in her free hand, which she takes a sip of before ushering Rey inside.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on your way out, Missus Solo,” Rey apologizes as the woman shuts the door. “My mother asked me to bring this by.”

“How sweet!” The woman smiles and raises her eyebrows at the dish, eyes widening. “I’m not on my way out at all; I’ve just been searching for an excuse to wear this dress. My name is Phoebe, by the way—no need for formalities.”

Phoebe escorts Rey out to her kitchen and puts the casserole in the refrigerator. It’s the same as the one in Rey’s house but the appliances are newer and the walls are pink instead of yellow. Rey clasps her hands before her as she looks around and vaguely listens to Phoebe speaking.

“…No time to go out,” she continues, following a thought Rey didn’t pick up on. Phoebe closes the refrigerator and smiles again, tense, sipping her martini. “Archie is nearly a year now and he commands so much of my time—”

There’s a loud wail on cue. Rey glances over her shoulder and frowns, and when she looks back, Phoebe has her eyes closed and is polishing off her drink. Her jaw is tight.

She sets down her glass and exhales, smiling once more. “The doctor tells me to let him cry it out. He says rocking the baby is bad for his brain.” Phoebe sets down her drink and shakes her head, turning and opening a drawer. “I’ve already given him some fresh air today and I fear he may never stop crying.”

Phoebe lights a cigarette. She leans on the counter, fingers trembling as she takes a pull and exhales. Rey nods and glances back towards the continued wailing. Last year her Aunt Vicky had her first baby and she always quieted down when she was held. Maybe opinions have changed since then.

It must be very stressful to listen to all day. It’s even exhausting to listen to for just this handful of minutes.

“I can check on him, if you’d like,” Rey offers. She shrugs sheepishly. “I always enjoy it when my aunt visits with my cousin and she seems to like—”

“Would you mind, dear? That would be so kind of you. He’s just down the hall in his nursery.”

Phoebe smiles and taps her foot. Rey nods and pivots to head down the hall in search of the nursery.

There are very few pictures hanging on the green walls, which Rey finds odd. She pauses at one of a tall man standing beside a fighter plane but quickly moves on when the shrieking from Archie reaches a fever pitch.

It’s a nice nursery: blue and green with a large crib in the center of the room. Rey circles to the side and sees a squirming red-faced baby lying on his back, kicking and screaming and clearly unhappy. His hair is a shock of red, too. She’s seen very few red-haired people in her life.

He continues to cry after she picks him up. Rey meanders around the nursery patting his back and cooing to him, wincing when he screams. Her cousin is a much happier baby.

But eventually the sobs peter out and the baby dozes off against her shoulder. She sighs as quietly as she can in relief and takes a seat in the white rocking chair in the corner to make sure he’s firmly asleep before she returns him to his crib. He doesn’t need to be changed but maybe he’s hungry. Better ask his mother before assuming anything.

There is a soft knock some time later. Phoebe peers inside and beams, then tiptoes across the room to stop by Rey’s side. She sets a hand on her shoulder and squeezes and they watch Archie sleep for another minute or two before Rey returns him to the crib.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Phoebe whispers as soon as the door is closed. “It feels as if I’ve been listening to him sob for an entire year. I’m sure Mister Solo is as grateful as I am but he’s terribly busy in his study so you’ll have to forgive him for his… quietness.”

Rey smiles and nods. Sure. Her father is busy when he comes home from work, too.

She heads home to watch _I Love Lucy_. Phoebe calls an hour later and asks mother if Rey would like to babysit a handful of nights a week, just for a few hours. She had a feeling it was coming.

“Rey would be more than happy to help,” mother says, waving off Rey’s groan. She pauses and nods, raising her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m sure Rey will appreciate a few extra dollars in her pocket. That’s very generous of you and Mister Solo, Phoebe.”

Mother walks back to the kitchen to continue her conversation. Rey lies on her back in front of the television and scowls at the ceiling. They better have a television so she can watch her shows.


	2. ankle-biter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god ....... i love when men ignore me  
> jk  
> kinda

Phoebe requests Rey’s services Friday night, which is a little inconvenient. She _was_ planning on going roller skating with Rose but a stern look from her mother sends her packing. Fine. _Lucy_ is on tonight, anyway, and the Solos do have a new television.

Rey brings some knitting along as well. Mother is very good: she makes sweaters and scarves and mittens, and it always seemed like a worthwhile hobby to Rey. Sometimes she isn’t in the mood to go dancing or roller skating and just wants to spend some quiet time alone.

So far she has half of her first project done: a red scarf. It’s bumpy and a bit ugly if she’s being honest but mother says it’s good for a first attempt. Once Archie goes to sleep she should have some time to work on smoothing it out.

Phoebe is waiting near the door when Rey arrives. She’s all dressed up in a blue gown with her blonde hair curled and primped and a layer of makeup that would have gotten Rey sent to her room to clean off. She’s smoking a cigarette and her hand trembles: Archie is screaming from the nursery.

“I’ve tried feeding him,” Phoebe says, smoothing her fingers above her eyebrows. She shakes her head and leads Rey down the hall. “Just this afternoon I set him on the back porch for some fresh air to clear out his lungs at the doctor’s suggestion.”

“My mother told me some babies are just very vocal. Sometimes they just want to know you’re around.”

Phoebe casts her a frown as she opens the nursery door. She plucks the cigarette from between her cherry red lips and steps aside to let Rey walk in.

Archie is red-faced and covered in tears again. His white dress is rumpled and stained from tears, and he drools as Rey scoops him up from his crib. He’s big—he’s nearly a year old, she thinks, but not doing any of the things one year olds tend to do. He’s very pliant and weak, small for his age.

Rey rests his over her shoulder and pats his back. He hiccups and keeps crying but the screams dissipate somewhat. Improvement.

Phoebe sighs, drawing from her cigarette.

“Good. He seems to like you, Rey.”

She shrugs, turning in small, slow circles while she pats his back. Mother says babies should be held as often as possible, but Rey wouldn’t presume to tell a woman how to raise her own child.

Archie drifts into a slumber while his mother finishes getting her things together. She waves goodbye from the door, smiling, and slips out into the evening.

It isn’t hard to care for babies, Rey thinks. She changes Archie using the expensive disposable diapers Phoebe has set aside, and once he’s clean and relaxed he drifts off to sleep easily enough. She folds her arms on the crib and watches him for a few minutes before wandering out to the sitting area.

The furniture is very modern: bright colors and soft edges, nothing like the style to be found in most other houses. Rey runs her fingers along the back of the sofa and makes her way to the kitchen to find a bite to eat. Mother’s tuna casserole will have to do.

A note from Phoebe is taped to the refrigerator. Rey pauses to read it: she says thank you, and tells Rey to help herself to whatever food is in the house—and requests that she doesn’t bother Mr. Solo in his study.

_Mr. Solo is quite busy with his work. Please refrain from excessive noise or disturbance._

Rey glances toward the hall. His study is upstairs and she has yet to see him emerge from it. She’s never met him; never seen his face. Mother says he’s not very friendly.

She slices herself a piece of tuna casserole and turns on the oven to reheat it. It seems rude not to offer Mr. Solo a piece—since she’s eating in his home—so she decides maybe one small disturbance won’t offend him too much. It’s just a simple polite question. Maybe he’s hungry.

Rey walks upstairs, drawing her hand along the rail. Some homes in the cul de sac are two-story but many are ranch-style, like hers. She peers down the dark hallway and shuffles toward the sound of a chair scraping against wood.

She comes to the door and raises her hand to knock, then notices her pink blouse is rumpled from holding Archie. Rey quickly smooths it down as best as she can, brushing lint from her jeans. This is her father’s boss and she doesn’t want to make a bad impression. She should have worn something nicer.

She takes a deep breath and knocks. Only a few moments pass before the door opens.

Mr. Solo is quite tall and quite broad in the shoulders. His black hair is trimmed to his ears and he’s wearing glasses just like father’s, along with a blue sweater just like father’s, too. His eyes are dark and cold and fixate on Rey’s face as she stares up at him. He smells like the aftershave papa uses.

He’s quiet. Rey is too, intimidated by his presence. He’s _very_ tall. She swallows, wilting under his stare.

“H-Hello… sir. Mister Solo.” She bows her head for some reason. “I’m heating up something to eat and wanted to know if you’d like a bite?”

He doesn’t respond. Papa usually does: he smiles and nods and ruffles her hair. But Mr. Solo, for all his surface similarities to her father, is not the same.

Rey wrings her hands. She averts her eyes to the floor.

“My mother made a tuna casserole,” she says. “I don’t care for it but… if you were hungry, sir?”

Another quiet moment passes. She risks a peek, and finds him still staring. His dark eyes roam down and she feels he’s noticing her jeans—maybe she shouldn’t have worn them. Some men find it offensive, even if it’s the emerging fashion.

But Mr. Solo doesn’t need to say anything. His judgment is clear in his stare, and Rey nods and takes a step back.

“I’m sorry, sir.” She bows her head. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

She continues stepping back. Mr. Solo watches her until she’s reached the opposite wall, then he closes his study door, still staring, still impassive. Rey doesn’t dare meet his gaze as the door clicks shut.

She rushes downstairs to finish preparing her meal, cheeks burning from embarrassment. She’ll wear something nicer next time.

—•—

Phoebe needs Rey’s help again by Monday morning. Mother spends the day preparing a casserole and tells Rey when she arrives home from school.

“She should consult a physician,” mother says, rolling her eyes as she places the lid on the casserole dish. “Or a midwife. There is plenty of help available.”

“She has, Mama,” Rey replies. “They tell her not to touch him and to leave him outside for fresh air so he can learn how to soothe himself.”

“Well that’s nonsense. Babies need affection.”

“Let Missus Solo raise her children as she sees fit, dearest.”

Father is home early, lounging on the sofa with a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. He’s blonde like mother, not as neatly trimmed as Mr. Solo and a few inches shorter, but he’s a kind man— _unlike_ Mr. Solo.

Mother rolls her eyes to Rey, shaking her head. Rey smiles and rolls her eyes in return.

“Well… _regardless_.” Mother adjusts the hem of Rey’s blouse and steps back to admire her outfit. “You look lovely, dear. Perhaps this weekend I’ll bring you shopping for some stockings—you’re so grown up now.”

“Isn’t fifteen a bit young for that, Jeanette?” father calls.

“She’s nearly sixteen, Jack. I’m sure the other girls are beginning to wear them, and we don’t want Rey falling behind her peers.”

Father heaves a sigh.

Rey chose a white blouse and a blue skirt with white socks and shoes for today. Her hair is drawn back in a ponytail with a blue flower hair clip—it’s very proper; very appropriate. She even switched to her white Pop-Its that she wears in place of real pearls. No makeup. If Mr. Solo doesn’t like jeans, he would be _aghast_ if she wore makeup.

She leaves, kissing her mother and father before she steps out. Today’s casserole is beef—maybe that will be more palatable to Mr. Solo.

Phoebe is holding Archie when Rey arrives and he seems to be sleeping. She, however, has clearly _not_ been sleeping: despite her makeup there are clear dark circles under her eyes and she smells faintly of alcohol. Her plaid house dress is rumpled and there is a bit of spit-up on the shoulder.

She smiles faintly. “Another casserole? That’s very generous of your mother.”

“She’ll just keep sending them if you don’t refuse,” Rey jokes, and Phoebe smiles a bit wider. “I’m just glad she didn’t make another with tuna.”

“It was quite good. Mister Solo—”

Archie wakes. He whimpers and Phoebe grimaces, then he’s crying and she looks like she may cry, too. Rey trades her the dish for the baby and swiftly carries him to the nursery to try to settle him down.

Mother thinks something may be wrong with him. He doesn’t smile often; doesn’t coo or laugh. He doesn’t try to speak and doesn’t walk. Most of his time is spent sobbing and whimpering, and while Rey’s knowledge of babies is limited, she does know Archie is behind other children his age.

But it isn’t her place to mention it to Phoebe. Rey pats his back and sits in the rocking chair to soothe him, wincing at the screams he makes. It would be rude to tell a woman how to raise her son.

Phoebe comes to the nursery some time later, now changed into a clean dress with her makeup reapplied. She still looks very tired.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” she says. “Just to get some air. I don’t want to keep you all night.”

“Sure, I don’t mind.” Rey shrugs, nearly waking Archie. “Take your time. If you want to rest when you come home I don’t mind keeping an eye on him for you, too.”

“Thank you so much, dear. I’ll let Mister Solo know he needs to pay you before you leave tonight.”

Rey nods and thanks her, shivering when the door closes. She doesn’t have much interest in seeing him again.

Archie fusses when she tries placing him in his crib, so Rey brings him to the sitting area. He sleeps on her shoulder, snoring softly while she watches _I Love Lucy_ on low volume. There’s just enough room for her to pick up her knitting so she does, working through it and smiling at Lucy’s antics. It’s her favorite program. Father doesn’t like when she spends too much time watching it, though.

Creaking on the stairs draws her attention. It’s her second episode of _Lucy_ and Archie is still solidly asleep so she doesn’t want to move. Maybe Phoebe hasn’t left yet.

But the lumbering footsteps are not Phoebe’s. Rey turns her head slightly as Mr. Solo comes around the side of the sofa.

He’s dressed very nicely again: everything pressed, from his green sweater to his slacks, and shiny new brown loafers. He’s wearing his glasses and the same blank expression he had Friday evening, and Rey instinctively smiles. He’s kind of scary.

His dark eyes study her. He looks first at the baby, then his gaze travels to her knitting, and ends at the television. It lingers there.

There’s a pause, then Mr. Solo ambles to the television. He leans over to turn it off and Rey is all at once ashamed and apologetic and irritated. She shouldn’t be watching shows in his home without permission, but she _is_ babysitting his son for him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispers as he returns to the side of the couch.

He doesn’t reply. Rey peers up at him, but quickly looks down when she meets his steely gaze. It’s odd how he doesn’t have to say a word to let her know he’s unhappy with her. Only mother has ever been able to do that, and it works less and less as Rey grows older.

It’s silent for another minute. He’s staring. Glowering. She can’t bear it any longer.

“Fees will be paid to your father.”

Mr. Solo’s voice is deep and icy just like his eyes. A prickle slithers down Rey’s spine and she nods, even though she thinks that isn’t fair—but she wouldn’t dare tell him that.

He doesn’t say anything more. He walks slowly away back the way he came, and Rey doesn’t take a breath until she hears the study door close upstairs.

Archie whimpers and squirms. She shushes him, glancing over her shoulder nervously. Another thing to remember for her next visit: no watching television. How unfair.


End file.
